201 - The Delivery Man

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Break a leg.

It's today.

It's today.

The delivery man comes today.

Welcome to Night Vale.

I'm waiting on a package, and I think it arrives today, listeners.

You know that feeling deep within your belly, like going over a hill too fast, or when you have a really large liver parasite?

That's what delivery day is like for me.

Many of you know about the delivery man.

He wears shiny black shoes, perfectly pressed pants, and a mariner's cap cocked jauntily back off his brow.

His blue eyes are matte but bright.

His smile is broad and full of long white teeth.

He carries with him friendly treats, candies for the children, and steaks for the dogs.

And he always has a package for someone.

Sometimes they expect it, sometimes they do not.

The delivery man revels in our thrills, our nervous excitement for the day a parcel arrives.

He grins as we take the cardboard box from him, our hands shaking, our ankles trembling.

He imagines us ripping at its seams moments later with a box cutter.

He daydreams about our gasps as we find out the surprise that awaits us inside.

Oh, what a life to be the delivery man.

There is no greater righteousness than the act of giving.

To give is to love.

To give is to replenish.

To plant seeds.

To understands one's place upon the earth.

A tree gives shade.

An ocean gives rain.

A woodchuck gives visions of a cute little furry butt bobbing through the brush.

A chicken gives flesh, quite unwillingly and with a gruesome fight if you're not swift about it, but still.

The delivery man gives deliveries.

And today is the day for me.

I hope, anyway.

The delivery man has a motto.

That motto is, no weather, no war, no man,

no illness, and no God may stop me from my duty.

All people deserve prompt delivery, and all people eventually get what they deserve.

That's a noble sentiment, if ever I've heard one.

The delivery man will stop at nothing to bring you what you have coming.

He stalks the sidewalk whistling John Brown's body and tipping his coal black cap at passers-by.

He avoids pavement cracks and counts all of his steps in sets of 60.

Today he has walked 320 sets of 60 steps, and he will walk many more.

He likes even numbers and despises odd numbers.

He winces at his odd-numbered steps.

His molars are misshapen from years of gritting his jaw at odd numbers.

Yet, his lucky number is five.

He loves five.

There are exceptions to every rule, save for the delivery man motto.

Yes, the delivery man loves the number five.

His lottery numbers are 5, 15, 25, 35, 45, and 55.

And he won it twice in the last year alone.

He wins the lottery quite often, though he has never desired to be a wealthy man.

He saves some money for the proverbial rainy day, but the rest of his lotto winnings he puts into his job, his life, his only love in the world.

Deliveries.

Everyone knows the delivery man's ticket numbers and his incredible success, but no one dares take those numbers for their own.

It would be a slight to the delivery man.

A betrayal of a man who devotes his entire life to giving.

The delivery man gives.

Why should we be so daft as to take?

Let him have his lucky number.

Good old five, the delivery man says aloud every time he counts his fifth step in a set of 60.

He shouts this often, his baritone voice humming through the leaves of tree-lined suburban streets.

Sometimes he singsongs it, Good

Old

Five.

But sometimes he whispers it softly to himself, perhaps because he is in a conversation with another person, and it would be rude to shout this out loud while the other human was explaining through tears, say, that their mother's cancer had returned and that they wish there were mercy in this world.

The delivery man knows that there is no mercy in this world, but he will gladly oblige anyone who wishes to reiterate this point.

It's a good point that is oft worth repeating, the delivery man believes.

Somewhere in Night Vale, right now, in broad daylight, the delivery man walks purposefully, counting each step, rejoicing in his fives, grinding his teeth on the ones and threes and sevens and nines.

He scans the houses looking for his next

recipient.

The delivery man owns a truck.

He could not make his deliveries without one.

He enjoys driving his truck.

It's refrigerated because some deliveries need temperature regulation.

No one wants their delivery to spoil or rot, or worse yet, die in the back of a sweltering truck on a hot winter's day like today.

The delivery man's motto is important and immutable, even if it says nothing of the quality or timeliness of a delivery.

But attention to detail is implied.

Care is implied.

If you live by the motto, you could not possibly fail to treat each delivery with respect.

The motto demands that level of respect.

Just by following the motto, you live the motto in every facet of your life.

No one is perfect, of course.

The delivery man once lost a package.

It was a small box, only three inches long, a perfect cube.

He had placed it on his dashboard.

It was so tiny that he did not want to lose it.

He watched it closely, even while driving.

Even as he heard a scream and felt a thump beneath his tires, his eyes never left the delivery on his dash.

He drove ahead, never stopping, never slowing, never looking up from the package that was exactly as important as all other packages, only smaller.

The delivery man lives a precise and moral life.

But he had to stop the truck that day to prepare the other packages for hand delivery.

He had to double-check his delivery list.

He had to open the back of his truck and climb inside to verify that each delivery was in its proper place.

He had to remove some meat from a cage and eat his lunch.

He had to do this with the back door closed so that no one would hear the sound of flesh tearing, nor the snarls of his hunger, nor hear the mules of the other creatures who were witnessing their own future ends.

The delivery man knows it is impolite to be seen eating on duty.

While he enjoyed his lunch, some young people, teenagers, the delivery man growled, reached into the cab of his truck and stole the tiny box.

From the back cargo hold, he felt them touch his truck.

He heard them whispering to each other.

By the time he emerged, he saw a trio of kids running down the block.

He did not run after them.

He does not like to run.

Running is for those who are late, and those who are late are not living by the motto.

He watched them run while wiping the pink juices from his face.

A tiny piece of gristle remained stuck in his mustache for the rest of the day.

Everyone he came across noticed, though no one said anything to him.

He wouldn't forget those teenagers' voices, their hair color, the way they ran, the sounds of their shoes on pavement.

The delivery man would see the kids again.

He was certain of it.

And when he did, he would not deliver them a package.

He would deliver them a lesson.

Children need guidance.

The delivery man thought.

They want structure and rules.

Crime crime and punishment, yin and yang,

heads and tails, life and death.

Everything is a circle, except the tiny box.

It was a perfect cube

and it was gone.

The delivery man is in Nightvale, right this moment.

Somewhere in the bright sun, whistling his song, counting his steps, greeting everyone he sees with a gentle smile, a wink, and a tip of his cap, which is as black as the void.

Everyone smiles and nods back, looking quickly away, uncomfortable with the intimacy of a prolonged glance at a stranger.

But the delivery man does not break his gaze.

He studies them, tries to understand them, remembers their faces, burns their names into his brain like a sizzling white-hot brand into the skin of a cow.

The delivery man comprehends empathy as a broader concept.

Somewhere along some street near some house, the delivery man looks for someone to give his delivery to.

What could be in that parcel?

He carries it gently, but with little effort, like it weighs but an ounce.

Of course, the delivery man is surprisingly strong.

He does not look weak, but you cannot imagine that beneath those stiff, boxy clothes stands a real Charles Atlas, a regular stone-cold Steve Austin, a proverbial man of steel.

You cannot actually imagine at all what stands inside of those clothes.

No one has seen his body beneath the uniform.

The delivery man has never had a mother, nor a sexual partner, nor a doctor, nor taken a physical education class.

There is no one who could have ever gazed upon his natural body, for if they had,

they would be confounded.

Confused.

Perhaps even scared.

Not because his body body is scary, but because his body doesn't exist at all.

The delivery man's crisp uniform is filled entirely with cotton and wires.

He has never had a body, and his only need for one is to soothe others' expectations.

The delivery man is happy to assuage your limited imaginations.

And again today he prowls our streets eager to see the look on the face of the next recipient of his much-anticipated delivery.

Standing just outside a radio studio in the center of Nightvale, the delivery man eyes a man in the window.

That man in the window is speaking into a microphone at this very moment.

That man is wide-eyed and terrified of the delivery man's watercolored eyes and crooked smile, which, from the man's vantage point, looks like a broken fence.

The man at the microphone does not move.

And as the delivery man enters, the man at the microphone shivers.

He hears the delivery man coming down the hall.

The man at the microphone, a man I have known my entire life, a man I know well,

is truly frightened.

More frightened than he has ever been.

He doesn't know what to do.

So he simply utters

the weather.

The strawberry meadow, where you promise we live

is way past the season with nothing to give

I remember when we couldn't keep away

The night was a visit I couldn't overstay

Why is it strange when the curtains are drawn?

You don't wanna touch me till it's morning and I'm cold.

I'll leave the light on, but you never come home.

So I sleep in the meadow alone.

Good night

and

light.

Can't wait to wish you away.

I'm only doing

what I'm supposed to do.

But it's not enough to make it stay.

You don't need to tell me, I already know.

I fall in love quickly and fall out too slow.

I caught all the sickness that you ever parted with,

leaving me to relive.

All the days between the hours with love on your breath.

And the reasons you gave me till you had no one left.

I'll leave the light on

just to lie awake.

Can't give up the love you won't take.

Good night,

and

alive.

I'm only doing

what I'm supposed to do.

But it's not enough to make you sleep.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veef or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, from Grease to the Dark Knight.

So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unschooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Schrödinger's cat is simultaneously dead and alive because we cannot witness which state the cat is in.

So we presume both possibilities exist at once.

But if both are true, then only the worst can be true.

Does that make me a pessimist?

The glass is half empty.

Half a cat is a fully dead cat.

On my desk is a box.

It's about the size of a small book.

Maybe it is a book.

Did I order a book?

Maybe it's a DVD, though I don't have a DVD player.

Maybe Francis Donaldson at the antiques mall has one?

When he handed it to me, the delivery man doffed his hat, which was the color of undreaming sleep.

I had never seen him up close.

His face was cartoon-like, not metaphorically, it was literally drawn on, like amateurish swirls for eyes, which sat too high and an overly bulbous nose like an upturned cauliflower.

His head was a styrofo lump, not even a well-formed mannequin bust, but like packing peanuts compacted into a football shape.

And his mouth?

The worst was his horrible mouth.

It was a lopsided oval, inside of which were a series of uneven vertical bars bisected by a single horizontal line.

And yet he whistled through that static mouth.

He whistled incessantly.

I began to cry.

Not sobbing, not sorrow, Not even scared, but like the stinging rush of tears from dicing a warm, overripe onion.

For some reason, I began to apologize to the delivery man.

I felt the need to explain that I didn't know what had come over me.

It's been a really stressful couple of months.

The holidays were weird this year.

I think I need to get more exercise, maybe...

return to therapy.

I don't know.

Carlos and I had a dumb argument about the spice rack, the spice rack of all things.

Though, looking back at it, I think I was just cranky, and it wasn't about the spice rack at all, but my own insecurities.

I think I can fix things through words, but sometimes words only make it worse.

I should listen more.

I told Carlos that, and he was very forgiving.

I don't deserve him sometimes, and right now I feel even more insecure.

Of course, I deserve him.

We all get what we deserve, after all.

I said all of this to the delivery man.

I don't know why.

Just poured out of me.

For a long time after,

seconds, the delivery man stood and stared, his hastily sketched face implacable.

But his neck cocked like an Igger dog.

or an invading alien.

And then without moving his mouth, I heard him faintly whisper,

Good

old

five.

He gave a thumbs up, and I saw that his fingers

were made of pipe cleaners.

Then he left.

And here is the box.

Inside is

don't think about it, Cecil.

Just do it.

Oh.

Well, it's...

It's a photo frame.

Bronze, ornate, floral pattern.

It's very pretty.

This photo is...

I don't know who that is.

It's very old.

It's black and white, kind of blurry.

A middle-aged man with thinning black hair and a short, well-groomed beard.

He's wearing a dark suit.

He's not smiling, but he doesn't look sad.

I definitely did not order this.

Oh, maybe it's a gift.

No.

Nothing else inside.

No note.

No return address on the package.

Actually, the only thing written on the package is Cecil.

in large, childish handwriting.

Well,

I can't say I'm impressed, but I can't say that I am relieved.

What a day.

Anticipation is more strenuous than experience.

I'm glad that it's over, though.

I'm glad that.

The picture changed.

The frame on my desk, the one I just opened.

It was an old-timey photo of a man.

Now it's a color landscape oversaturated like a vintage postcard, only with no lettering.

It's of a forest?

Are those redwood trees?

Something familiar about those trees.

I've been there.

Surely I've been there.

Oh.

This is one of those digital frames that connects to your Wi-Fi.

I see.

Huh.

Nope.

No charging port.

No batteries.

It's as analog as a frame can be.

I don't like it.

I don't like it one bit.

But it is a gift from the delivery man.

And there is no more righteous gesture than giving.

I can see him right now, across the street, off to another delivery.

But not before turning back to look at me, his face unchanged, his body perfectly still.

He can see me through the window and he thinks maybe I do not like the delivery.

I

love

it.

Thank you

so

much.

He's waiting for me to break eye contact.

Should I

is it threatening to

him?

to keep looking?

Or is it more polite to look away?

I don't know.

I don't know.

Look away, Cecil.

I do.

And as I look back,

he is gone.

The photo in the frame now

is of me.

In the picture, I'm wearing exactly what I'm wearing in this moment.

I am smiling.

But I look sad.

I should get more rest.

I deserve it.

Stay tuned next for the sound of your own

breathing.

Good night, Nightvale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

All that can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

This episode's weather was Good Night Dandelion by Space Cowboy Newt.

Find out more at soundcloud.com/slash emma underscore Newton.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Night Vale Radio.

Or look into a mouse's eyes and see a brain that works in an utterly different way from your own.

Check out WelcometonNightvale.com for info about our world tour with tickets for our Glasgow show going up soon.

Tickets for all other shows are up now.

Today's proverb: let those without sin lighten up, maybe do a crime or say a swear.

Mix it up, people.

Have a little fun.

Hey, y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner speaking to you from the year 2025.

And did you know that Welcome to Night Vale is back out on tour?

We are.

We're going to be up in the northeast, in the Boston, New York City area, going all the way over to the upper Midwest in Minnesota.

That's in July.

You kind of draw a line through there, and you'll kind of see the towns we'll be hitting.

We'll also be doing Philly down to Florida in September.

And we'll be going from Austin all the way up through the middle of the country into Toronto, Canada in October.

And then we'll be doing the West Coast plus the Southwest plus Colorado in January of 2026.

You can find all of the show dates at welcome to nightvale.com slash live.

Listen, this brand new live show is so much fun.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it stars Cecil Baldwin, of course, Symphony Sanders, me, and live original music by Disparition, and who knows what other special guests may come along for the ride.

These tours are always so much fun, and they are for you, the diehard fan, and you, the Night Vale new kid alike.

So feel comfortable bringing your family, your partner, your co-workers, your cat, whatever.

They don't got to know what a night veil is to like the show.

Tickets to all of these live shows are on sale now at welcometonightvell.com/slash live.

Don't let time slip away and miss us when we are in your town because otherwise we will all be sad.

Get your tickets to our live U.S.

plus Toronto tours right now at welcome to Night Vale.com/slash live.

And hey, see you soon.